She grows bristlecone pines
as house plants, drops little seeds
into paper cups with harsh soil
from Sierra mountainside,
sunburnt seedlings frosted,
parched, neglected for weeks
fitting nature’s plan, her
windowsill a forest growing
with the speed of centuries.
Her bedroom is cramped.
She sleeps by the door.
Her love is prickly, remembers
wooly mammoths, survived asteroids.
She gets angry when I suggest orchids.
The landlord wants her out,
wants to build condos, turns up
the heat.
In cups her love grows
for grandchildren to transplant
to faraway years, unfriendly soil,
to ever struggle, never thrive.
Please, may they survive.
This poem first appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly.
—
Joe Cottonwood’s poetry books include Random Saints, Foggy Dog and Son of a Poet. Long ago he wrote an underground novel called Famous Potatoes and recently the memoir 99 Jobs: Blood Sweat and Houses as well as several novels for children. He lives with his high school sweetheart under redwood trees in the Santa Cruz mountains of California. He has worked most of his life in the construction trades repairing and improving houses.
